


warm and fuzzy

by wincestgoddess



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dialogue Heavy, Drunk Dean Winchester, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:47:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28001142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wincestgoddess/pseuds/wincestgoddess
Summary: Dean braids Sam's hair. Or tries anyway.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 6
Kudos: 125





	warm and fuzzy

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you peachispn and juinaespn for this idea on twitter and inspiring me to write it! We all need a sweet, slightly inebriated Dean in our lives 🖤

“Stop fidgeting”

“You’re pulling my hair.”

“S’too damn… too damn long. Jesus Sammy, would it kill you to get a haircut?”

“Yes, Dean. My life force is actually my hair. You cut it, I die.”

“Holy shit. Really?”

“No, doofus. Man, you’re drunk. Gimme the bottle.”

“Aw, hell yeah. You finally gonna stop being a prude and drink with me, college boy?”

“Someone has to be sober enough tomorrow to get you bacon, so no.”

Pouting, Dean watches with strangely soulful eyes as Sam takes the whiskey away and places it out of his reach. He could try to stretch and take the bottle back. Really, he could and probably would succeeded. Except his vision's sort of swimming and his brain feels fuzzy.

How much did he drink?

“Bottle and a half. You weren’t kidding about wanting to get smashed”

Oh fuck, did he say that out loud?

“Stop talking and focus on the video, would ya?”

“Screw you, pal. You’re the one who brought up braiding your freakishly long hair.”

“I was joking! Besides, you’re the one who actually went looking for tutorial videos and yanked on my hair until I agreed.”

“Yeah, yeah. Shh, I think I almost got the French braid down.”

“And you need me to shut up for that?”

“It’s called concentration.”

“It’s called ‘you’re wasted and your coordination is shit’.”

“Damn, who raised you with that potty mouth?”

“You did, Dean.”

“Heh, yes I did. Did a damn good job, too.”

Rolling his eyes, Sam holds back any snarky comebacks and instead chooses to bask in the feeling of Dean’s fingers running through strands of hair. Concentration, his ass. Dean occasionally attempts to actually pay attention to the video, but more often than not he ends up mumbling something about ‘silky’ and ‘strawberry shampoo’ and he’ll run his fingers through his hair, will scratch his scalp gently every now and then too.

And Dean? Well, he’ll happily lose himself in Sam’s hair. The burning alcohol’s done its job; Dean feels giddy and like he’s walking on air at the same time. The motel’s mattress is soft like a cloud Dean could easily sink into.

Sam’s sitting on the carpeted floor, leaning against the bed and falling victim to Dean’s clumsy hands. And it’s not that Dean’s not trying, because he is, okay? He wants to make Sam pretty ( _prettier_ ), wants him to take one look in the mirror and give Dean that dimpled smile that will undoubtedly cause a swarm of butterflies to fill his belly.

Right here, right now in this shitty motel room nothing can hurt them. Sam’s chest keeps rising with each exhale. Dean’s tongue pokes out as he tries to regain focus. Here, it’s only them. For the time being there are no monsters, no demons or angels. Only one soul in this room. Only happy sighs and mumbled nonsense. Mumbled nonsense that grazes Sam’s ear, that makes him close his eyes and tilt his head back and--

“..Did you just sniff my hair?”

“...No. M’not a creep.”

“Dean.”

A pause of silence. A palm trails down Sam’s jaw, down to his neck. Fingertips seek out a heartbeat.

“Strawberries.”

“What?”

“You smell good.”

“You’re not gonna make fun of me for not using the perfectly decent shampoo the motel has?”

“Sam.”

“Mhm?”

“You smell _good_.”

This time the words are accompanied by a nuzzle to his jaw, up and behind his ear. Dean presses the ghost of a kiss on that patch of skin. Barely there, barely felt. Still makes Sam shiver with the underlying intention.

“You’re way too drunk for that.”

“Never too drunk for that,” Dean gasps, offended, “C’mere, Gigantor. I’ll show you.”

“Gee, I just love it when you call me that. Makes me wanna jump right into bed with you.”

“I know.”

A cheeky smile is the only reply Sam’s bitchface will get tonight.

Sam’s sigh is half exasperation, half fondness as he cranes his neck, ignores Dean’s protest and grips his brother’s chin to pull him into a sweet, soft kiss that has Dean Winchester positively melting into it.

Just them. No need for walls, no need for guarding. His heart’s bare for Sam.

“If you finish braiding my hair and do a half decent job, I’ll blow you tomorrow after you throw up and brush your teeth.”

“Not gonna throw up.”

Sam takes a swig of whiskey just for the sake of it. His brother’s warm and fuzzy and there’s no danger lurking outside their door. Sam can indulge in a night cap as well if he feels like it.

“Uh-huh, we’ll see about that tomorrow”

“I suck at this, don’t I?”

“Not really. I know that if you were sober you’d be halfway done by now.”

“You really think so?”

“Yeah, Dean.”

“Would you let me do this sober?”

“If you want to, sure,” the corners of Sam’s mouth tug up into a smile.

“You’ll blow me tomorrow?”

“That’s what I said. So, deal?”

“…Pass me more hair ties.”


End file.
